


Restoring Balance

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding out Sylar is alive puts Mohinder on edge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restoring Balance

_“In all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane.”_   
**-Oscar Wilde **

 

**I**

It feels as if time has stopped, trapping him in a nightmare.

Tentatively, hoping against hope, Mohinder presses down on his cell’s keypad to listen to the message—the one laden with frustration and desperation, ripe with profound sadness and absolute anger.

_“Hi Mohinder, it’s Peter…Sylar’s alive…He’s been alive this whole time and my mom—Christ—my mom and Bennet knew about it. Did it. With Matt—he’s the one who switched the memories and made him into…Nathan…Nathan’s dead…and they kept it from me. I don’t know…I have to stop Sylar. He’s furious, which I actually get. Be careful. I don’t know what he’s going to do. I don’t even know where he is. I just…in case he comes to you, please be careful. I’ll see you as soon as I can. Mohinder…bye.” _

Ignoring the robotic prompt to delete or save the message, Mohinder closes his eyes and swallows back the bile that is rising up his throat.

The world implodes around him.

 

**II**

Mohinder’s primary concern is Molly’s safety. He calls his mother before hopping a plane to India, with adrenalin burning through his veins. Although he tries to shield his mother from the gruesome specifics of what has him sounding and acting more urgent than he intends, she reads between the lines and offers up soothing words meant to pacify and ensure.

It is nearly his undoing.

For a moment he wants nothing more than to stay with her and leave the unforgiving life in America behind. He wants to laugh again, wake up with nothing but good expectations for the day (even if those don’t play out) and go to sleep without worry twisting his stomach and restless dreams torturing his soul.

But he keeps it together, for her and Molly. He reminds himself that the only way to stop Sylar, once and for all, is to face the horror and finally deal with what was sown not so long ago.   
Molly is the calm to the storm raging within and when she looks at him with concern in her eyes, when she sits down next to him on the sofa and leans her head on his shoulder, he is driven by the need to do the right thing by her, to at least give her the chance at a real life.

She looks for Sylar at her own insistence, not that Mohinder tries to stop her. As hard as she tries, however, she cannot find him and Mohinder offers her a false smile meant to placate.

It is possible but unrealistic that Sylar is already dead. They both know the more troubling theory—

Sylar has found a way to stay hidden.

 

**III**

Mohinder grows accustomed to looking over his shoulder back in New York.

Streets, once strange then as familiar as the back of his hand, become ominous. Buildings loom tall, shadows shift and shape, and the big bad wolf licks his lips, revealing a glint of sharp teeth peeking through a murderous smirk. Broad daylight offers no reprieve, instead making Mohinder more anxious for what he is not seeing but feels he should.

Peter shows up once in awhile, looking worse for wear. Mohinder wishes he could be of more help to his friend. Powerless—depowered—Mohinder feels useless. He second-guesses the decision to inject himself with a “cure” for the abilities he gave himself, but ultimately knows it was the right thing, the cost far too high to leave as was. In any case   
Peter seems to take some comfort in having a place to catch his breath with a friend who hasn’t betrayed him.

Only once has Mohinder tried to talk to Matt about what happened. He doesn’t bother with Angela (he still remembers the distaste with which she first greeted him, bringing Peter’s lifeless body into her home) and Bennet has always made it clear he answers to no one (for all the good that’s done him). But Matt—though Mohinder has never been close to him, they had found a common ground with Molly and good intentions. And now…

The long distance call is awkward and uninformative. Matt sounds broken, an absolute mess belabored by harsh words and angry sentiments, although whom he is angry with is not quite clear. Mohinder’s money is on self-loathing.

With irritation Mohinder continues to drive a cab. He works out a deal with his boss to only work day shifts. He knows perfectly well that he can just as easily be killed with the sun high in the sky, but the unforgettable parallel to Chandra being killed on the job with the moon as the only witness strikes Mohinder as tragically poetic.

Mohinder is not interested in tempting fate. He has played that game before and all it got him was right here, right now. Not that it stops him from spending his nights trying to create an immobilizing drug strong enough to take down Sylar without killing him, at least not yet.

Every noise, shimmer of movement, touch (accidental or not) has him on alert. He waits, expecting Sylar to show up making demands, sarcastic comments and offering up self-serving justifications for his actions.

_Any day now_, Mohinder tells himself.

Sylar never comes.

 

**IV**

Peter survives four face-to-face confrontations with Sylar, the last one barely.

Angela escapes bloodied and bruised. Or she is purposely let go for the purpose of acting as a walking and talking brutalized piece of evidence that details Sylar’s wrath.

The torment of Matt, coupled with his crippling guilt, leads him to be voluntarily signed in at a psychiatric hospital where he is drugged into an acceptably serene state while remaining under round the clock watch.

Bennet is marked gruesomely, disfigured and forced underground. Sylar uses the welfare of Sandra, Lyle and most importantly Claire, to keep Bennet on a tight leash. He forces Bennet to use his connections with the defunked Company to provide a more extensive list of Special people with abilities useful to his vengeful cause.

The fact that Claire can heal makes her a particularly useful tool in Sylar’s attacks on Bennet. After all, a father’s love can be twisted painfully at the sight of his broken daughter, no matter if she can correct herself with ease and spit out resistant diatribes at the boogieman back from the dead.

In between, a slew of others whose crimes are either to have worked within Angela and Bennet’s once more formidable ranks or were unfortunate names on a list they never asked to be part of, fall by the wayside. They are casualties in a war they never knew was declared.

Sylar builds his arsenal. He wages battle with precision.

And not once does he bat an eye in Mohinder’s direction.

 

**V**

At first Mohinder is relieved to not be in the crosshairs of Sylar’s calculated rage. But then a strange feeling of uncertainty takes over. He finds he is offended at either being ignored or, worse, regarded as nobody of importance; insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

It shouldn’t bother him. He should welcome being off the radar for once, but all he feels is confusion. After everything he has been through with Sylar; given the most personal way his life has been forever altered by the man and the way he knows he and Chandra have informed Sylar’s life, it is unconscionable for it all to be so cavalierly dismissed.

Each day that goes by without an unexpected visit only serves to make Mohinder question everything he thought he knew. He goes over the once intricately detailed memories of Sylar either sparing his life or reaching out to him for help. Even though Mohinder was more blatantly dismissive of Sylar’s actions regarding him specifically, he knew—or at least thought he did—there was something more at the core.

To find out his inferences were off the mark is an upsetting reality check, as much for Mohinder’s lack of self-awareness as for the loss of one of the most important (albeit disturbing) parts of his life.

He is mad at himself for granting an unquantifiable worth to the very experiences that apparently mean nothing in return. Maybe Sylar is not as fascinated with him as he apparently is with Sylar.

Unrequited obsession—

Mohinder is supposed to be better than this, than screwed up intimate details beholden to no one else. He is—_was_—sure that Sylar once held him to a standard no one else is—_was_—privy to.

Delusions of grandeur.

Mohinder realizes he is only human on the inside.

 

**VI**

Barely three steps into his apartment, Mohinder hears the door slam behind him just before he is spun about and pushed forward against the wall. With the left side of his face pressed in place his line of vision is limited and no matter how hard he tries to turn around, he can’t.

“I believe you were expecting me.”

As mocking as the words sound there is a cold edge of detachment that sends panic through Mohinder.

“Sylar,” he spits out with a groan.

“Shut up!” Sylar flips him around and slides him up the wall a few inches to take away any balance his feet may seek out. Gesturing with his left hand he forces Mohinder’s mouth shut.

He appears collectively manic. The dark brooding eyes that Mohinder grew familiar with once upon a time are even blacker and the strong angular lines of his face and body that detail the tension boiling within allow no room for their typical banter. Dressed all in black (from his boots all the way up to his black trench) he is nearly the vision of Sylar that Mohinder remembers from Kirby Plaza, but this time he looks like he has every intention of being the villain.

“Did you know?” Sylar finally asks.

Mohinder narrows his eyes inquisitively but is unable to voice his confusion due to Sylar’s telekinesis. Sylar rolls his eyes and removes the hold on Mohinder’s mouth.

“What?” Mohinder asks.

It is not the answer Sylar wants and he clenches his jaw; then sends Mohinder hurtling by him and into (and over) the kitchen table. The shock of the pain that pulses through Mohinder’s body has him struggling to crawl to his knees, reaching for the cupboard to help as he pulls himself up. Mohinder can already feel the bruises forming on his body and he can’t help but let loose a muffled gasp.

“Did you know about this plan to turn me into Nathan?” Sylar asks again when Mohinder is almost fully standing. At the same time he quickly turns Mohinder on his feet (forcing his balance off again) and shoves him back against the counter.

“No,” Mohinder groans.

“Don’t lie to me,” Sylar seethes.

“I’m not,” Mohinder says more insistently, his eyes widening as Sylar suddenly stalks forward.

The telekinetic hold is dropped but Sylar’s naturally tough grip on Mohinder’s collar, practically strangling him, is still something to be reckoned with. He pulls Mohinder forward and Mohinder fights to push Sylar off of him, pulling at his hands and arms. Unexpectedly Sylar loosens his grip slightly. His breathing is heavy and his eyes are focused intensely on Mohinder’s.

When Mohinder stops fighting (thankful he can breathe more comfortably) Sylar again asks, “Did you know?”

This time, however, Mohinder hears (or thinks he does) something else in the commanding tone. Coupled with the softening of Sylar’s otherwise blazing eyes searching his, Mohinder is sure he hears—

_Please tell me you didn’t. Please._

“I didn’t,” Mohinder says as firmly as possible. “You _know_ I’m telling the truth.”

Sylar begins to say something then stops, instead inhaling deeply. Mohinder returns the penetrating stare that Sylar has him fixed in and then Sylar exhales slowly, dropping his hold on Mohinder’s shirt and backing up a few steps.

Cautiously, never taking his eyes off of Sylar’s, Mohinder takes one step forward and, with his left hand, gently rubs his neck, feeling the bruise already forming. There are a myriad of things Mohinder wants to say but all the can get out is, “Sylar,” before Sylar turns away and leaves the apartment, the door left wide open behind him.

Mohinder moves quickly to the hallway but Sylar is already gone.

 

**VII**

For four months Sylar is completely off the grid.

With no new attacks, a collective breath is slowly released, but everyone remains on edge.

Peter still says nothing pointed about Sylar’s visit to Mohinder, but Mohinder knows what he is thinking. It’s the same thing that has played over and over in Mohinder’s mind.

_He specifically came for an answer. Why?_

One night, in the middle of a fitful sleep, Mohinder is awakened by a sound in the kitchen. Slowly, listening carefully, he pulls on a white t-shirt (the illusion of slipping on protective armor provides much needed confidence) countering the vulnerability of the drawstring black cotton pans he normally sleeps in. Opening the bedroom door he takes tentative steps across the floor, but the loud creak of the floorboards ruins any attempt at subterfuge and, with the shake of his head, he switches to a regular walk.

The sight of Sylar sitting at the kitchen table staring at a mug placed in front of him is a surprise to say the least. He glances up and Mohinder stops, a sarcastic quip dying on his tongue at the unreadable expression on Sylar’s face and the fact that he recognizes the mug as the one he was holding when he drugged Sylar the first time betrayal was a currency they traded in. Keeping his eyes trained on Sylar, Mohinder walks over and sits down in the chair across from him.

With an invisible touch Sylar rapidly slides the mug across the table, prompting Mohinder to stop it by picking it up.

“I didn’t go after her,” Sylar says.

“Who?” Mohinder puts the mug down.

Sylar stares at him for a moment. “The kid. If I wanted to hurt you, Mohinder, she’d be dead already. Her ability is still one of the most tempting.”

The guarantee—because cryptic wording aside that is what this is—of Molly’s safety floods bittersweet relief over Mohinder. “Why are you here?”

A pause. “So that you would know something true,” Sylar says with a low rumble.

Mohinder swallows nervously and leans forward. “Sylar.”

“They have to pay,” Sylar states, glaring from beneath heavy eyebrows.

“They have,” Mohinder insists, cupping the mug tightly between both hands. “And so have many others. When is it enough?”

“For what they did? There’s no such thing as enough,” Sylar sneers.

Mohinder knows he has to walk a fine line with his counter agreement. “Yes, what they did was—,”

“Unforgivable.”

Mohinder sighs. “Unforgivable. _But_ an endless cycle of revenge will not result in you commanding their respect.”

Sylar furrows his brow and scoffs. “Why would I want their respect?”

“Not theirs specifically, in general.” Mohinder pushes the mug to the side and leaves it. “You want people to look up to you and see you as the pinnacle of being.”

Sylar shrugs dismissively. “Fear works well enough.”

“Yes, it certainly kept me in my place.” Mohinder leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

Sylar smirks. “You can save your breath. I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.”

Deflated, Mohinder drops his shoulders. “Peter—,”

“Is fine as long as he stays out of my way,” Sylar snaps.

“You know he won’t do that.”

Sylar fakes dawning realization. “Oh yeah…maybe if you ask nicely.”

Mohinder raises an eyebrow. “Would it really change anything if I did?”

Sylar pretends to consider the question and, nodding his head contradicts the gesture by saying, “No.”

Mohinder rolls his eyes and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re not the only one they hurt. He lost his brother. He never got to grieve; believing you, of all people, to be Nathan. Imagine what he—,”

“I had my identity stolen!” Sylar booms. Sliding his chair back he stands up and presses his palms flat against the table’s surface. “They took my life away.”

Mohinder wills himself to remain calm despite briefly flinching. Taking his time, he stands up, feeling the full force of Sylar’s unwavering stare. “I’m aware of that,” he says with his right hand raised to mollify the man. “But that does not make a murderous rampage—torture—acceptable.”

“You think I’m better than that?” Sylar queries, his annoyed disbelief palatable.

“I know that you’re capable of being much better than that.” Mohinder takes a step around the table.

Standing tall, Sylar looks down at him. “You pleading for my immortal soul?” His tone is surprisingly (though maybe not for them, truth be told) suggestive.

“What soul?” Mohinder deadpans.

Sylar smirks, but seriousness settles into his features quickly. Moving towards Mohinder he quietly says, “The one you saw spilled all over my closet wall.”

It is a sudden turn to the reverent past and Mohinder is unsure how personal he wants this confessional to go. “I thought that was you purging yourself of the final inhibition—your conscience?” It is one part mockery and one part genuine wonder. Mohinder carefully gauges his reaction.

Sylar regards him closely. “It was,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Guess something stuck behind.”

Mohinder’s mind flashes a series of non-sequential memories, some detailing Sylar’s unapologetic selfish discontent, others that recall the most remote semblance of humanity that at the time seemed very real. Attempting to reconcile the monster with the human is a test of Mohinder’s resolve and moral ambiguity.

“But not enough to end this,” Mohinder pushes.

“No.” Sylar shakes his head and, leaning into Mohinder’s space, adds, “There’s going to be a whole lot more bloodshed.”

“Sylar—,”

“Don’t beg. It’s beneath you.”

Mohinder reaches for him as Sylar moves by, heading for the door. All he manages is a light touch of Sylar’s sleeve before he feels himself held in place; only able to watch Sylar turn on the spot and walk backwards to the door with his arms raised out to the sides.

“Don’t,” Mohinder insists but Sylar isn’t interested.

“It’s the way of the world, Mohinder. Que Sera, the stars are aligned, the dye is cast and I am a creature of habit—once watches, now so much more.” He places his hands on the door behind him. “All the world’s a stage. I play havoc and show you who really lurks beneath your facade. You try and cut me down to size, tell me I’m merely mortal. Don’t wait up.”

It is not until he is well out of sight that Mohinder can move again.

 

**VIII **

Weeks turn into months.

Peter heeds Mohinder’s warning that Sylar is building an arsenal to wage a major fight and goes on exhaustive patrols (when he is not at his paramedic job) to find him.

Mohinder’s nights remain restless until 3:00am; the same time Sylar had last shown up. After that, with no return visit, he finally manages to slip into a tranquil state of slumber.

Still, each night before he turns in he places a mug—the one—on the kitchen table in front of one of the chairs with a container of chai next to it, just in case.

A welcome that warns he is not to be pushed around.

He never knows when he might get a visitor.   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Faves Summer 2010 Fiction Awards  
> **Nominated for Fantastic Narrative Voice - Vignette - (WINNER)**


End file.
